


The Birds, The Birds...

by daisygonezu



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bi Panic Atsumu, Happy Medium Osamu, Living Together, M/M, Morning Wood, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oblivious Sakusa (or so we think)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27078160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisygonezu/pseuds/daisygonezu
Summary: He supposed even someone like Sakusa Kiyoomi had to get his hands dirty from time to time.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Hinata Shouyou (implied)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 80





	The Birds, The Birds...

**Author's Note:**

> hello. i'm back with this trainwreck of a fic because the sakuatsu brainrot was hitting me way stronger than usual these past few weeks. 
> 
> the morning wood inspiration actually came from some old but glorious bnha fanart i saw a while back, so if anyone wants to see it i can provide a link, but for now i'm just gonna leave it out because it doesn't really have anything to do with the fic itself. 
> 
> now that i've gotten that out of the way, i should note that none of the boys are pro-volleyball players in this au. they played in high school but are otherwise normal wage workers fresh or semi-fresh out of college, so this would put them around 23-25(?), not sure. as for the tags, i didn't add the archive warning for rape/non-con because this fic definitely isn't that intense. however, let it be known there are non-con aspects, just a heads up. 
> 
> that being said, this was embarrassing to write so if you actually enjoy it please let me know so i can pat myself on the back for enduring. if u wanna talk to me about how stupid they are on twitter u can find me @daisygonezu .
> 
> https://twitter.com/daisygonezu
> 
> EDIT: the amazing art work included was drawn by dicte! thank you sm i adore it <3 follow her twitter @myaadidi !

Kiyoomi was doubled down on rent after Iizuna and Komori moved out of their half of the duplex. It was a spacious apartment, large enough to host three grown men with separate bedrooms and a sizable couch in the living room, but small enough that he frequently bumped elbows with Iizuna when squeezing through the kitchen to grab a bowl in the mornings. Now, since their jobs had forced them to find a closer location downtown, Kiyoomi was drifting through his empty apartment like a buoy lost at sea, no tethers in sight. He needed new roommates within the next few weeks, or his wallet would suffer immeasurable consequences.

_Damn it, though... he wasn’t keen on letting Miya Atsumu move in with him._

The twins had been house-hunting for a while according to what he’d heard from Komori, who kept in contact with Osamu, but their budget was too limited for the newly-built places with modern backsplashes bordering the counter walls and the latest bidets installed in the bathrooms, and Atsumu was, to be expected, a messy roommate.

But something Kiyoomi hadn’t expected?

“I don’t think Osamu wants to live with you,” Komori snickered during their makeshift last supper, simple furikake bowls and shrimp katsu courtesy of Iizuna’s intermediate cooking skills. It tasted good, but the texture of the shrimp was bothering Kiyoomi. He ate it slowly like a rabbit, bite by bite until his stomach couldn’t handle anything but the rice, and even that churned low in his gut. Komori plucked another piece from his own plate before continuing, “Seems he thinks you’ll be too high maintenance.”

Kiyoomi scowled behind his chopsticks, “Yeah, and?”

“Unless you convince Atsumu to butter up his brother and make a deal, you’ll be stuck with our halves of the rent,” Iizuna said, “And we already had Atsumu come over to look around. He seems invested enough.”

“He was here?” Kiyoomi’s brow raised, stomach lurching at the new information. _What had he touched? Whose slippers had he worn? Was he in Kiyoomi’s room? What kind of charismatic bullshit had he spewed to get an invitation to begin with?_

“Last Tuesday. You were at work and I had the day off. Remember?” Iizuna sighed, “He only stopped by for about half an hour. It was quick.”

Gross. Atsumu had been putzing around his floors and he didn’t even know. It would’ve been mildly nicer if Osamu had come instead. He at least had the decency to clean up after himself, but...

“Osamu wasn’t there?” Kiyoomi sighed, defeated. So this plan was reliant on the younger twin, then.

“Right, he’s still iffy,” Komori said, brushing the corner of his mouth where some grease had accumulated from the last few bites. “Who knows? Maybe you’d be able to convince Osamu yourself, but the guy’s fairly busy. It’s hard to get a hold of him. Your best bet’s probably Atsumu.”

“They both have jobs?”

“Osamu’s got the restaurant going for him,” Iizuna’s expression turned contemplative, “I’m not really sure what Atsumu does. He’s got money, though.”

“Some sports catalogue, right?” Komori inquired, “I think he mentioned something like that.”

Kiyoomi really didn’t want Miya Atsumu living with him.

But the cards weren’t in his favor, and when Komori and Iizuna were fully removed from the duplex a few days later, Kiyoomi found himself texting Atsumu for the first time since their high school days, bitter and annoyed by the lack of punctuation in his response.

 _hell come around dont worry about it_ \- Miya Atsumu

Would he, though? Osamu was his one and only bargaining chip. Kiyoomi refused to host Atsumu unless his much more tolerable brother was dragged along in tow. He’d made up his mind on that matter.

*****

So, Kiyoomi’s text came out of the blue. Atsumu didn’t have a lot of time to aimlessly scroll through his phone during shift breaks at the catalogue’s publishing office. It was only ever enough to take a peek at his Twitter feed and carry on with his day, but what a surprise it was when his phone pinged and Omi-kun popped up in the notifications.

 _Convince Osamu to make the move. You can afford the rent, can’t you?_ \- omi-kun

Of course he could. Atsumu toured the place, saw it with his own eyes. It really was a nice space that could accommodate him and his brother for the foreseeable future if Sakusa would have them, but Osamu was being a pissant about the whole thing. Atsumu punched out a reply and stuffed his phone into his pocket before heading back inside. He had a deadline to focus on, but he’d be damned if he didn’t use the opportunity to get Osamu on his team.

When he unlocked the door to their apartment after clocking out for the evening, Osamu was already halfway through dinner. The lock made a tiny beeping sound as the door shut behind him, bent over to peel his shoes off and toss them onto the mat as neatly as he could manage before stepping into the living room. Atsumu had no energy left to frown, but that didn’t stop the vulgar comments from spewing passed his lips.

“Eatin’ without me. Pretty fuckin’ rude, don’t ‘ya think, ‘Samu?”

“You told me to start without you this morning before you left.”

“Did I?” No response. “... Liar.”

“Whatever, there’s more in the tupperware.” Atsumu glanced at the table top where most of their cooking was done. A square-shaped container laid next to their untouched fruit bowl, a browning bundle of bananas staring back at him with splotchy, bruised eyes.

An old volleyball match Osamu had recorded sometime that week was flickering on the TV, the announcer’s voice clear and lively as rapid-fire comments were shouted after each play. His brother’s eyes were zeroed in on the game, darting back and forth between jersey numbers while his chopsticks remained poised over the bowl resting on his knee. The only light turned on was the one above the sink, but Atsumu could tell just from the white beams reflected off the TV that Osamu was settled in for the night, dressed in a worn pair of flannel pajama pants and a threadbare T-shirt he’d stolen from their dad sometime before leaving for college. He’d never realized it had gone missing, so Atsumu had snagged a couple, too.

The acidic scent of shoyu still steaming with warmth hit Atsumu’s nose in a humid fog when he opened the tupperware, appetite instantly stimulated after being forced to deal with his coworkers’ bullshit all day. Scooping the chicken fried rice into a bowl, he stuffed it into the microwave, set the timer for two minutes, and only flinched a little when he closed the door too harshly on accident. When he glanced at Osamu to verify whether or not he’d noticed the subtle act of aggression, he was met with furrowed brows and a grimace.

“ _Easy on that_ , it’ll break.”

Atsumu clicked his tongue, mumbling a quiet “Shaddup, you sound like ‘Ma” before rounding the corner of the table and heading toward his bedroom to change into something more comfortable.

What someone like Sakusa Kiyoomi would have worried about when considering Atsumu as a potential roommate revolved majorly around his cleaning habits, firmly under the impression that dirty clothes and mismatched shoes would be strewn about haphazardly in an apartment reminiscent of a pig sty. But contrary to popular belief, Atsumu didn’t make a mess of the _whole_ apartment. He simply kept it contained in his own bedroom. It was easier than having Osamu bitch and complain every time he slipped on a stray sock, and Atsumu had gotten the hang of side-stepping mountains of laundry and old sports catalogue stacks since middle school.

He slipped out of his button down after popping the first few holes and hung it on the hanger ledge beside his closet door, pants following suit, and then sank into his mattress to tug the socks off his feet before using his toes to grab the same shirt he’d worn to bed last night from the exposed part of the carpet beneath his bed frame. He reckoned he could get two more wears out of it before it started to smell.

Pushed onto the opposite side of the mattress was his laptop, black screen reflecting his face in the mirror image as he pulled the shirt over his head and used the same method with his toes to grab a pair of sweatpants, navy in color and too small on his calves. By the time he’d finished yanking them just above his hip bones, he heard the microwave’s timer start to blare.

Allowing himself a few seconds to breathe, he pulled his laptop onto his thighs and re-typed his password three times before the blue light startled him with the clickbait ad of a pornstar's tits and an alluring “ _Hey there, handsome~_ ” erupted from the speakers.

“Shit-”

“ _‘Tsumu, come get y’er food!_ ”

“Shit. Fuck,” He forced the browser to quit and slammed the cover down with an audible growl, “Shit.”

“ _‘Tsumu!_ ”

“Shut y’er trap! I’m comin’!” He snarled, abandoning the laptop on his blanket to shuffle back into the kitchen with a glower curtaining his cheeks.

“What was that noise?” Osamu asked from the sink, water gushing from the faucet to rinse out his bowl before setting it in the basin.

“YouTube video.”

“Didn’t sound very _YouTube appropriate-_ ” He could hear the teasing smirk without having to look at him.

“Have you thought about what Komori and Iizuna said?” He quickly asked, using a hand towel to grab the now scalding bowl from the microwave before sliding it across the table and grabbing a fresh pair of chopsticks from the drawer below their Keurig.

Osamu’s leer turned into a neutral pout, “I still think we should find another place for ourselves. You know what Sakusa’s like, ‘Tsumu, c’mon…”

“We’re not gonna find anything cheaper, and it ain’t like he’s that bad, right? Plus, we already know him. Would you rather go through the process of havin’ to make a good impression on a totally new landlord, or stick it out with Mr.Clean for a bit?”

“He hates y’er guts.”

Atsumu scoffed, “Huh, ‘ya think so?”

“Komori said he looked like a serial killer when they told him you came over to look at the place.”

“That’s aw’fly rude of him. Too bad. He needs roommates and we need a roof over our heads after the contract for this place runs out.”

Osamu hummed, “Gimme a couple days to think about it.”

“I’ve already given you a couple days. He sent me a text earlier, ‘ya know. He’s gettin’ anxious.”

Osamu seemed surprised by the fact but didn’t waver, “Gimme a couple more, then. I’ve gotta talk to him myself first. Actually, I don’t even have his number. Send it to me, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let me eat first.”

The rice was so hot that Atsumu couldn’t taste much of anything but the shoyu at first, but after it’d been perched on his lap for a bit and given enough time to cool, he was able to taste the more intricate parts of the recipe that Osamu labored over. Diced carrots and fresh snow peas, raw onions and bits of fluffy egg that correlated so perfectly with the chicken that it made Atsumu’s mouth water even as he shoveled it down his throat. The volleyball game was still going strong on the TV, but Atsumu guessed it would be over by the time he finished the bowl. Osamu had returned to his preferred corner of the couch, half-invested with the game while tonguing at a grape-flavored popsicle dangling from his fingers.

“Have you still been talking to that one girl?” He asked boredly, “What was her name again?”

“Eh?” Atsumu paused over his rice, momentarily confused before the half-blurred image of a decent-looking girl with dark brown hair popped into his mind, “Oh, Mayumi-chan. Sometimes, yeah. Not recently though, why?”

“Figured she’d wanna know we won’t be living here anymore if you plan on keeping her around.”

“We’ll see, depends on my mood.”

Osamu shot him a disapproving glare, “Don’t be like that.”

“Mind y’er own business. You’ve been stringing along that carrot top for weeks now and he doesn’t even know you’ve opened the restaurant. Y’er in no place to talk to me about relationships and don’t you forget it.”

“I actually care about Hinata. Can you say the same for Mayumi?”

“No, and I don’t gotta. We said it’d be no strings attached for a reason, and I’m just followin’ through.”

“You’ve already decided, then.”

“Just shaddup, would ‘ya? Let me eat in peace.”

“Hmm.”

“ _Hmm_ , y’erself!”

“You think Sakusa would wanna deal with y’er bullshit? He’d probably flip his shit if you brought a girl over. He’d probably flip his shit if you brought _anyone_ over.”

“If all goes well, he’ll just have to deal with my bullshit. That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

“Y’er a menace.”

“And y’er a pain in my ass.” Atsumu fished his phone from the crater of the couch it had fallen into and unlocked it, thumbing through various apps until his Messages tab opened and Osamu’s contact was displayed across the top of the smudged screen, “Here’s Omi-kun’s number. Text him.”

“I will.”

*****

The twins officially moved into Sakusa’s half of the duplex a week later. It was, technically speaking, Osamu’s first time seeing the place, but Atsumu’s review had been good enough to score a passing grade and there were no dire issues with Kiyoomi himself aside from the pyramid of house rules he’d thrusted upon them. They were manageable though, so Osamu settled. It was a win for everyone.

The biohazard contained within Atsumu’s bedroom was simply transported from one apartment to another, and Osamu spent the first two days unpacking kitchen utensils in the remaining cabinet storage and ensuring that Kiyoomi understood his recipe docket was completely off-limits unless he planned on cooking dinner every night. He definitely was not, so there were no issues there either.

In fact, there were no issues _anywhere_ for a long while.

Kiyoomi had been dwelling on that word since the very beginning. _Issues_ with Osamu, whom he feared would leave a mess in the kitchen. Grease stains, charred stovetops, stray crumbs on the table, a few rogue grains of rice on the linoleum tile that somehow managed to get stuck between his socked toes throughout the day, a splash of teriyaki sauce that could stain his favorite shirt if he didn’t pay attention when leaning over one of the countertop edges, remnants of oil from his fingertips on the handle of the sink faucet or the window, which Kiyoomi dutifully kept closed, but Osamu probably liked open. _Issues_ with Atsumu, who if not for his brother would make an ever bigger mess of the kitchen, with that wasteland of a bedroom spilling into the hallway, with a nasty habit of wetting the toothpaste only after he’d put it on the toothbrush (often times causing the seafoam green schmear to fall into the basin and dry into a hardened blob hours later). Not to mention his television preferences, which Kiyoomi could only assume were those foul pimple-popping shows or some variation of it, the kinds that made him gag at the mere mention of. But none of these things were true, at least for the most part. If they were, a compromise was made.

Osamu _did_ like the window open when he cooked. Kiyoomi told him to keep it shut, but if Osamu had actually listened, he’d be forced to suffer the stench of a failed dish for a minimum of two days. Aside from that, Osamu was as adequate a roommate as Kiyoomi hoped he’d be.

Atsumu was full of surprises, too. He kept his shoes tidied in the genkan and did his own dishes and laundry and brushed his teeth exactly how Kiyoomi expected him _not to_ \- wet the toothbrush, apply the toothpaste, then wet the toothpaste. He asked Kiyoomi before bringing girls over (because he didn’t actually care about what Osamu had to say on the matter), and after a series of hurried and awkward greetings at the front door, rushed them straight into his bedroom with no time to even consider sitting on the couch. Kiyoomi wasn’t going to lie, this pleased him. Atsumu was turning out to be much more reasonable than he imagined.

 _The issues_ didn’t start to form until about five or six months after the move.

Summer in Japan was monstrous in its own way. Coming from Hyogo, the twins were used to mild springs and summers where the humidity was consistent and didn’t fluctuate often. Hell, it was usually cool enough for them to wear jeans in July. Closer to Tokyo, however, the heat wave hit them unexpectedly in mid-August. Every window was cracked in the apartment despite Kiyoomi’s harsh resistance. Osamu had purchased four different electric fans, one for each bedroom and an extra for the living room. Waking up in the mornings, Atsumu felt refreshed, languid as early morning sunshine pelted his bare shoulders with gentle beams of light. He worked in the afternoon on Tuesdays, so he should’ve had enough time to fit a quick shower in before heading out, but Osamu always managed to snag it before him.

There wasn’t much he could do about it since his brother was already locked away in the bathroom, so he dragged himself out from beneath the covers and spared a squinty glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand, set to go off in another sixteen minutes at nine-thirty. It wasn’t often that he woke up before it, but maybe he’d use this chance to make a proper breakfast.

The apartment was quiet save for the subtle whispers of the shower down the hallway. Wading into the kitchen, Atsumu peeked around the corner of a wall to check if Sakusa had woken up yet and found a barren living room, furniture empty and TV shut off, the blanket he’d been using on the couch last night left bundled in a heap. Atsumu pulled back and turned toward the end of the hallway again, where Sakusa’s bedroom door was just barely cracked open and a small gap of sunlight fazed through. He had the question posed on his lips, ready to be asked once he nudged the door open a bit, _“Omi-kun, want an omelette?”_ , but all words died on his tongue at the sight laid out before him just beyond the threshold.

Atsumu didn’t think he’d ever seen Sakusa so _at ease_ before. Shoulders slack, wrists limp, one knee propped up and swaying back and forth lazily while his other leg stretched out across the mattress, a seemingly endless expanse of smooth, pale skin and wiry black hairs. The tennis ball he was tossing at the ceiling never drifted far from his hand, flying _up, up, up_ as smoothly as a volleyball during one of their old practice matches, dropping _down, down, down..._ dragging Atsumu’s eyes with it...

Forcing his attention to the painfully obvious tent pitched in his boxers. _Morning wood... he had to be kidding._

__

Atsumu’s hand instinctively recoiled from the doorknob, paused midair and hovering without a purpose as the walls of his mouth became no more than dried strips of flesh. How the hell was he supposed to react in this kind of a situation? A bolt of lightning shot through his crotch when Sakusa purposely let the tennis ball plummet back onto his mattress, instead moving his hand toward the juncture of his pelvis and thighs, long, slender fingers leaving feather light touches against the exposed skin there. It seemed Sakusa had forgone a shirt that evening, choosing to let the breeze from his electric fan keep him cool during the night. Second by second, Atsumu watched his nipples harden into twin peaks on his chest from the attention he lavished upon himself, the previous gentle brushes turning into resolute massages fully intent on gaining some kind of pleasure. When Sakusa’s hand slipped beneath the band of his boxers, wrapped around a cock surely reddened by strain and weeping with precum, Atsumu realized he’d been holding his breath that entire time. He released the burning air from his nose in shaky allotments of three seconds until it felt like his lungs were being stepped on.

A panicked glimpse at his own shorts let Atsumu know how prominent his own erection was, and Sakusa had only just begun.

Cock stiff in his hand, Sakusa gripped himself with enough tension to snap a pencil in half as he pumped along the head, short spurts of energy that had him gritting his teeth and pressing a frenzied mess of black curls into the pillow.

Atsumu’s thoughts were a whirlwind. On one hand, as silly it sounded, part of him genuinely believed Sakusa wasn’t the type to partake in stuff like this. It was too filthy, too beneath him to stoop so low and cave in to jerking off. The idea of getting cum on his fingers probably disgusted him, Atsumu thought. But no, that didn’t seem to be the case.

On the other hand, Atsumu’s ego was inflamed. He supposed even someone like Sakusa Kiyoomi had to get his hands dirty from time to time.

A barely noticeable groan seeped passed Sakusa’s lips and Atsumu found himself reaching into his own shorts to drag a hand along his shaft, squeezing the tip softly, forcing himself to stifle a sigh. Foreskin rolled around his fingertips, smushed against his palms as his wrist twisted in a corkscrew pattern. Sakusa had lifted his hips just high enough to slide the boxers down his hamstrings a ways, and now, all of Atsumu’s attention was diverted to the violent jostle of his balls, beating against the side of his fingers as Sakusa’s grip pistoned back and forth on the base of his cock. They looked _full_ and _heavy_ and _warm_ and _the perfect size to sit comfortably in Atsumu’s mouth_ and-

Wait.

…

_Wait, what?_

A wanton moan from Sakusa slipped through the crack in the door, and suddenly Atsumu was hunched over, leaning against the wall right beside it, furiously thumbing along the slit of his cockhead while imagining how great it would feel to rub his cheek against Sakusa's shaft, how smooth the drag would be.

God, Sakusa was gonna kill him. Sakusa was gonna kill him and Atsumu had it comin’, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not ever.

He was too far gone in the pleasure, fucking into his enclosed fist like a rutting canine, eyes glued to Sakusa’s cock. What would it feel like if he shoved it in Atsumu? If he scissored his hole open with nothing but stringy lines of spit and precum until Atsumu was whining like a little bitch? If he thrusted between Atsumu’s thighs until cum splattered up alongside his ballsack and Atsumu couldn’t do anything but beg for him to just _put it in_ already?

Fuck, he was so close.

Sakusa looked like he was, too. His nose was scrunched up between his eyes, mouth dropped open to let quivering gasps of shock escape each time he touched himself in a manner more desirable than the last. The muscles of his arm flexed harder than usual after one particularly rough stroke, and before Atsumu could get a grip on himself, thick jets of cum shot into his open palm like a broken spigot, splattered across his knuckles as if he’d taken a paintbrush and flicked at random.

Sakusa’s orgasm hit him only a few moments later. He’d forced himself to lean forward, head tilted away from the pillow so that it hung between his shoulders, hair falling limply across his cheekbones. With one hand firmly wrapped around his balls, the other pumped his cock faster than it had before, obscenely slick sounds reverberating throughout the room until his cum leaked from the tip in opaque white streams, covering the outer edge of his hand.

The apartment suddenly felt suffocating.

Atsumu was still standing outside his door, perfectly stagnant except for the silent heaving of his chest and the dazed blinking. He could still hear the shower running, so Osamu couldn’t have seen him. He’d tucked himself back into his shorts immediately after cumming, smearing his release on the side of the grey cotton fabric until the skin of his hand was red and raw. There was no reason for Sakusa to suspect he was even awake by now, so if he could just get his feet to function properly and move into the kitchen like he wanted them to, he could go about his day only mildly panicked, pretending as if none of this had just happened.

But his brain wouldn’t cooperate, his feet wouldn’t move, and Sakusa was still a panting, blushing, cum-covered mess on top of his mattress. He was bound to get up any second now to go wash it off; Atsumu knew he probably couldn’t bear the sticky sensation for that long before getting fidgety.

Atsumu’s lips thinned into a frantic grimace as he willed his knees to relax, mentally pleaded with his hips to just pivot around to the damn kitchen so he could wash his hands and make an omelette, but all of these actions turned against him when the only thing he proved capable of doing was accidentally pushing Sakusa’s door open a bit further than before with his shoulder, a gentle nudge he barely would have noticed had Sakusa not been in such a vulnerable position.

_Oh, how quickly Kiyoomi’s eyes snapped toward him._

Atsumu felt all traces of life evaporate from his body when Sakusa’s gaze turned outright livid. He’d been caught. _He’d been caught, he’d been caught, he’d been caught._ Sakusa’s eyes drilled a hole into his head and his fists were clenched and his jaw was brimming with tension and-

_"Miya."_

Atsumu wouldn’t make it to the kitchen. He was no longer physically or mentally capable of reaching it, so with all of the strength he could muster, he yanked Sakusa’s doorknob shut with a resounding bang and slipped back into his own bedroom, gasping as his door slammed nearly twice as loud. He couldn’t even hear the pounding in his chest, the surge of blood through his ears at the slightest memory of the morning’s events.

 _"Miya_ _Atsumu!"_

All he could hear was the sound of the birds through his window, chirping a melancholy little tune that only forbade the moment Atsumu’s life would come to an inevitable end. Sakusa was gonna kill him and Atsumu had it comin’.


End file.
